


Intolerable

by falls_the_shadow



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Altered Mental States, Disassociation, Empathetic Will, Gen, Grounding, Impersonation, Manipulating Hannibal, Mood transference, Vulnerable Will Graham, imperfect representation of said mental states and treatment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-25
Updated: 2013-12-25
Packaged: 2018-01-06 01:53:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,099
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1101010
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falls_the_shadow/pseuds/falls_the_shadow
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The mask Hannibal had made for himself, the one that created genial smiles or looks of innocent interest when the time called for them, descended. The mask dripped, slow and warm, around his throat and draped itself over his vocal chords so that when he answered the phone no sharp edge of anger was detectable. </p><p>'Hello, Jack,' he said.  'What can I help you with?'”</p>
            </blockquote>





	Intolerable

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally meant as a first chapter to a longer story, but I dropped that story and left this chapter to sit for a few months. After revisiting it a few days ago, I thought it might make a good one-shot. 
> 
> Please let me know what you think. Feedback is always appreciated!

* * *

There were several large shards of glass in the carpet. They glinted in the light from the fireplace, their shapes appearing to twist and fracture in the alternating brightness and shadow.  More shards lay on the sofa and in his lap, pointed and glittering. One large piece winked at him, its tip buried deep in his hand. He hadn’t been paying attention; squeezed too hard when the whine of the telephone interrupted the final crescendo of his favorite symphony. Careless.  One slow stream of blood wound through the lines in his palm. Hannibal set the thick bottom ring of the glass—the only part left intact—on the ground and brought his other hand to catch the red drops before they dripped onto his clothing.

The glass was not a problem. He no longer had a complete set, but nine scotch glasses was more than enough. He had just drained the glass of some of his mid-grade scotch a moment before the phone had rung, so no loss there. But he was bleeding. He had injured himself, and he was bleeding. Generally, no one did that without his consent and lived. But he would have to forgive his own carelessness—these things happened, after all. Whoever had rung so close to midnight did not deserve the same kindness.

He sat a long time, watching the blood drain slowly into his other hand. The phone stopped ringing after eleven long screeches. Hannibal closed his eyes. He let the symphony finish, the last few bars ringing out of the speakers on the opposite wall, and then, when the last note died out, he let it ring in his memory a few moments longer. His cupped hand slowly filled with blood.

After a moment he got up and walked to the kitchen. He turned the tap on the sink with his elbow, washed the small pools of blood from both hands, and cleaned the wound. He watched as each pink wisp of his own blood circled the drain and was pulled in. His body would replace what was lost soon enough. He would be sure to drain whoever called of enough blood that recovery would be impossible.

Hannibal had just finished bandaging his wound when the phone rang again. Its screeches reverberated off the walls and came to him from every direction. He pressed his thumb into his newly dressed wound and gritted his teeth against the pain. Pain was better than anger. Both could be distracting, but at least pain was pure.

He walked to the dining room table where he’d left his cell phone. _Jack Crawford._ He pressed the phone into his wounded hand and bit back the urge to throw it against the wall. Jack was not someone he could drain, hang from hooks in a dark room, and slowly devour. Not now. Not while he was so close, and still useful.

The mask Hannibal had made for himself, the one that created genial smiles or looks of innocent interest when the time called for them, descended. The mask dripped, slow and warm, around his throat and draped itself over his vocal chords so that when he answered the phone no sharp edge of anger was detectable.

“Hello, Jack,” he said.  “What can I help you with?”  The question would have been presumptuous with another caller, but Jack Crawford never called unless he needed something from you.

“Doctor Lecter. I’m sorry to call so late.”

“Please, Jack, don't apologize. What do you need?” Hannibal walked back into his sitting room, eyed the twinkling shards of glass on the floor; eyed the cabinet where the two rows of scotch glasses sat together, now uneven. He had been mistaken. He really would need to find a replacement.

Jack was hesitating on the phone. Annoying. The mask hid any trace of the feeling. “What is it, Jack?”

“It’s about Will.”

 _Shocking_. Hannibal couldn’t immediately recall the last time Jack Crawford had called him about something that was not related to Will Graham. “Yes, of course. Is he alright?”

Jack sighed. Hannibal could see him pinching the skin around his eyes into the bridge of his nose. “I don’t know anymore.”

 _Needless drama._. Hannibal glanced at the clock on the mantle. Nearly twelve thirty. “Has something happened?”

“Yes. Something has most definitely happened.” Jack was in a room full of people. Or at least, he was in a room with a few people who were very loud. “We just aren’t quite sure what.”

“Are you with Will now?”

“Yes. He’s right here.”

“What is he doing?”

“Nothing.”

 _You are wasting my time, Jack Crawford._ “What do you mean, Jack?”

“He stopped talking mid-sentence about fifteen minutes ago. He hasn’t moved. His eyes are open. I don’t even think he’s blinked. He was telling us about the—”

“No, wait,” someone in the background, a man, interrupted Jack. “He blinked! I just saw it!”

Jack sighed again. “Yes, okay, that’s great to know, but—”

“At least his eyeballs won’t dry out,” a woman said. Beverly Katz, Hannibal would wager. “Just lookin’ at the bright side here.”

“He was telling you about what, Jack?” Hannibal walked into the bathroom. The mask was still in place. Were anyone to walk in on him now they would find the look on his face in perfect harmony with the calm, patient tone in his voice. Practice had long ago made perfect.

“New killer in Rhode Island. Similar MO to the Chesapeake Ripper. Organs removed, body staged. That sort of thing. Will was trying to tell us why our new guy isn’t working the same angle as the ripper, then he just stopped talking, stopped moving, stopped…everything.”

Beneath the mask, which furrowed its brow in concern, Hannibal smiled. No matter how many killers Will saw, no matter what their similarities, Will would always understand enough to see the differences. “How did he look just before this happened?”

Hannibal could hear a rustle as Jack pulled the phone from his ear, heard the sharp whisper as he asked his team that very question. _Typical_. Jack was not one to notice warning signs, not when there was something he deemed more important in his view. More rustling as the phone was handed off.

“He looked like Will looks a lot of the time now,” Beverly said, a heavy breath making static in Hannibal’s ear. “Pale, sweaty. He kept rubbing his eyes and looking around, like he was confused. Then he just went still. He started talking all of a sudden, about the killer, and then he just…stopped.”

Hannibal nodded and his reflection moved with him, “May I speak with him?”

“You can try. I’ll put the phone next to his ear.”

“Thank you.” He thought a moment, then, “Excuse me, Ms. Katz. You should know, it is important that you do not touch him at this stage. He is in an altered state. You mustn’t jar him. I will try to coax him back to reality.”

“Sure. Whatever you say, Doctor.”

Hannibal waited a moment until the rustle died down, until he was sure Will could hear him. When he spoke, he spoke slowly, his voice low and resonant. A clear, calm beacon in the storm. “Will. It’s Hannibal. You are safe. You are among friends, and you are in no danger. No matter what you may see or feel around you, it cannot hurt you.” 

No sounds came back to him. Everyone in the room around Will was waiting, watching. Hannibal turned his back on his reflection and looked down at his wounded hand. “You are awake, Will. You are in a forensics lab with Jack Crawford. You were working on a case moments ago. Do you remember what you were saying?”

Nothing. Hannibal lifted his eyes to the ceiling, a gesture that was only for him. “Tell me, Will. The room, where you are, what does it smell like?”

A huff of air burst through the speaker, then another. Good.  Hannibal made his way through the hall to his kitchen, his footsteps as slow and careful as his words. “I remember the smell of those labs well,” he told Will. “I didn’t frequent them as a surgeon, but I had the occasional displeasure of visiting them. They reek of disinfectant. Embalming fluid. Decay. They are very cold, aren’t they, Will?”

Some hesitation evident in Will’s breathing, then, “Yes.” 

Hannibal smiled again beneath the mask. No matter how lost Will was, there was always a way to find him. “Are you cold now, Will?”

“Yes.”

Hannibal flexed his wounded hand, watched as small points of red appeared on the bandage. “Tell me more about the room, Will.”

Will’s voice was quiet, choked. Hannibal could hear him swallow, hear the dry smack as he opened and closed his mouth. “Bright. Smells….like you said…antiseptic, death.”

“Good, Will. Very good. You are returning to us.”  Hannibal could hear Will’s breathing quicken, hitching with each inhale, lungs wheezing slightly with each exhale. It was regrettable, having to speak to Will over the phone. Now that Will was coming back to reality, a touch, his touch, could help to ground him. Hannibal frowned—now he could only ease Will with his voice, his words. It would have to be enough.

“You are safe, Will,” he repeated. “You will be yourself again in a minute.”

“Did I-” Will coughed, “Did I lose myself?”

“You walked away from yourself for a moment. All you needed was a guide back.”

He could see the painful, oddly stretched smile on Will’s face. “That’s a nice way to put it.”

“I would like to ask you a few more questions, to be sure you are fully present.” Hannibal moved noiselessly through the room, drifting from light switch to light switch, flipping off those in the hall, the kitchen, the backyard.  The shadows heaved and grew around him. He took a few deep breaths so Will could hear, imitate.

He heard the strain in Will’s voice as he tried desperately to sound calm, together. “Ask away.”

Hannibal stood, bathed in darkness, nothing and no one able to see him. He let the mask slip, melt like wax from his face. His burden lightened, he could feel his muscles relax, his throat unclench. Speaking to Will was easier than speaking to others. It required finesse, certainly, but also far less patience. There was no need for a full show. “Can you remember what you were saying before you disassociated, Will?”

“I was—I was trying to tell Jack…” there was a moment’s pause. Perhaps Will was only just realizing he was not alone in the room. “There’s a new case. Murder in Providence. I was trying to explain to everyone that it’s not a new victim of the Chesapeake Ripper.”

“Jack mentioned there are similarities…”  Hannibal’s voice remained light, curious. If Will could see his face now, if anyone could, they would be shocked at how little his expression matched his tone. Plagiarism was the most disgusting form of rudeness. 

“Similarities, yes, but it’s not…” Will seemed to be fighting hard to keep his words, his thoughts, in order. “There’s not enough there. But I don’t know. We only have photos to go off of.”

“You weren’t able to view the crime scene?” Hannibal made his way through the kitchen using his memory and what little he could see between patches of blackness. He alighted the stairs, his wounded hand gripping the railing too tightly. Pain was better than anger.

“No. Local cops didn’t call us in until they realized this might be the work of a known serial killer; scene was cleaned up by then. We’ve just got photos until he strikes again.”

“You believe it is not the Ripper, however?” Hannibal didn’t need to continue questioning. Will was slow to find his words but he was lucid. Curiosity, among other less savory things, drove Hannibal forward. He came to the top of the stairs and made his way down the hall to his bedroom, still wrapped in complete darkness. “How certain are you?”

“Certain?” Will laughed, a tight, hoarse sound. “I wouldn’t say I’m exactly certain of anything right now. You might want to check in with me on that later.”

Hannibal had left the windows open in his bedroom. A cool breeze met him as he opened the door; he could feel the hair on his arms and neck shift as he loosened his tie and undid the top button on his shirt. He smiled at Will, ever the self-effacing humorist. Hannibal had long suspected Will’s idea of socialization included a need to make others feel comfortable in his odd, twitchy presence. His clumsy attempts at humor would have been taxing performed by anyone else. But with Will…they were just his way of being kind. 

 _My dear Will. You are always so very good._ Hannibal sat at the end of his bed, laid one ankle atop his opposite knee, and allowed himself to soak in the perfect freedom that came to him in the dark. “I have no reason not to trust you judgment, Will. You may perhaps have gotten lost in your thoughts on this recent case, but that doesn't mean your conclusions are incorrect.”

Something creaked on Will’s end of the phone, perhaps he was leaving his seat, or turning it away from his colleagues. Hannibal imagined they went back to their work once Will had returned to reality. Jack would be sure not to waste any time. Will’s voice was hushed as he spoke. The others were busy, but not out of earshot. “I need to see the crime scene to be sure, but even in the photos something just seems…off. It’s a fairly faithful recreation of the Ripper’s MO, but there’s something missing.”

“We’ve discussed in the past that the Ripper appears to have very specific motivations for what he does.” Hannibal ran a hand around the back of his neck, pulled the silk fabric of his tie with him as his fingers pulled down over his shoulder and into his lap. He wound the tie around his hand and stretched it tight. Pain.

“Yes. This killer…he has similar motivations, but not exactly. These crimes feel too…personal, like they’re all about him—his revenge for wrongs done just to him. At least, what he perceives to be wrongs.”

A flash of anger swept past Hannibal’s carefully constructed defenses. His neck burned hot with it, his fingers pressed into the fabric of the tie, into his wound. The pain helped him to level his voice. “You don’t see that in the Ripper?”

“No, no,” Will’s words were muffled as he ran a hand over his face and down across his lips, and then he was silent. Hannibal could hear his breathing slow suddenly, finally matching his own. Will didn’t speak for several long seconds. Hannibal was considering that he might be disassociating again under the questioning, that perhaps he’d pressed too hard, when Will’s voice finally broke in over his thoughts. Will was suddenly very calm, his voice low. “It’s rude. Very rude, to plagiarize someone else’s work, especially when you don’t understand what the work means.”

“Will?” Hannibal’s head drifted to the side. This was not Will’s voice. 

 “It’s unacceptable, really. To take and warp someone’s vision for your own purposes. Intolerable.”

“Will,” this time Hannibal spoke the word as a warning. He stood up, gripped the phone with both hands. “Do you hear yourself?” He began to move swiftly around his room, footsteps spurred on by sudden curiosity, and something less familiar. Perhaps fear. “This is not you speaking, Will.”

“I cannot abide rudeness.” Will’s voice, so calm and cold, brought Hannibal to a halt.  Those words were horribly, hideously familiar. They were words Hannibal had never heard spoken; he had never said them aloud. He doubted if the thought had ever even taken linguistic form inside his head. Yet it was his thought. One that came to him so often it was like a mantra. He lived it, breathed it, and drained others of their breath for it.

“ _Will.”_

Hannibal nearly shouted it. It was perhaps not wise to try to jar Will out of the altered state—he wouldn’t have advised anyone else to do it—but Will could not be allowed to speak in that voice, his voice, in the presence of others any longer. He glanced at the clock on his bedside. “It is one fourteen in the morning, you are in Baltimore, Maryland, and your name is Will Graham.”

Will’s breath hitched. “What?”

“Say the words, Will.”

“I—” Will was wheezing again, mind coming back shocked and frightened from somewhere far away. “It’s one fourteen a.m., I’m in Baltimore, my name is Will Graham.”

Hannibal sighed, lifted a hand to his own forehead because he could not lift one to Will’s. “Will, I would recommend that you leave your work for the night and get some rest. Your mind is being stretched too thin by these activities. You must allow it time to recuperate.”

Will sighed, his breath quickening but no longer whistling through his lungs, “Right. Rest, sure. I can make an attempt.”

“Do so.” He couldn’t be on the phone any longer, couldn’t trust his voice to remain steady. He wished Will a sound sleep, then hung up and threw the phone onto the bed.

He sat a long time at the foot of his bed, hands clasped together, back hunched. In the darkness, the shadows were still and allowed his thoughts to wander through them. He was unsure how long he stayed there, in one position, until his phone vibrated behind him he noticed the clock said 2:21 when he glanced back.

There was a message from Will.

 _Sorry I’m not a more engaging call partner. I appreciate the help guiding me back though. Thanks_ _._

Despite his concern and exhaustion, Hannibal could not help but smile. Will was always presenting opportunities for Hannibal to wedge himself deeper inside his psyche. But now more than ever he to be careful that Will, groping in the darkness for something solid to hold onto, would not find anything beyond his outstretched arms, beyond the mask, where an even blacker abyss awaited him. Now was not the time.

 The clouds outside once again obscured the moon and the shadows stretched from the corners of the room and reached out to him. Hannibal reached for his phone.

_Not at all, Will. I am always here to guide you when you need it._


End file.
